


moon shines black

by faedemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Regulus Black is Born Later, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Alternate Universe - Roleswap, And then I had to write it, Gen, Human Remus Lupin, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Pagan Festivals, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Werewolf Sirius Black, What-If, so basically. i brought up to a friend how remus and sirius would be different if siri was the wolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faedemon/pseuds/faedemon
Summary: A Black heir cannot be a werewolf. But Sirius is the sole male heir to the Black family, and despite how Walburga may kick and scream, he is taught the way of purebloods regardless. Sirius grows up the perfect Black Heir, save the nights he is forced into their warded cellar to rip himself apart, and he has hope that he might just be able to survive long enough to inherit the name, and change things from the inside out—Until the year he starts Hogwarts, when Regulus Black is born, and everything he thought he'd become changes.An AU exploring how things would change, and how Sirius and Remus would be different, if Sirius was the werewolf, and Regulus Black was born later.
Relationships: Sirius Black & Andromeda Black Tonks, Sirius Black & James Potter, Sirius Black & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	moon shines black

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to [lovelcce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelcce) for lettin me bounce this idea off of her!
> 
> also, this fic is cross-posted on FFN under the username faedemonn, and can be found [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13575659/1/moon-shines-black)!

“The boy must be done away with!” Mother says sharply. She makes no effort to lower her voice, and it echoes out from the parlor on the second floor. Sirius cannot help but hear it. He is six years old.

“Don’t be too hasty, dear.” Grandfather Arcturus cuts her off, attempting to soothe her frenzy. “He’s your only heir, Walburga.”

“A Black heir cannot be a _werewolf_ ,” Mother spits. Sirius can hear his grandfather sigh even from a floor up.

Much of the family is gathered in the parlor. Sirius’ grandparents on both sides are here, as are Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella. Cousins Cissy and Bella and Andy are here too, but Aunt Druella told them not to play with him, so Sirius sits on the third-floor landing alone, listening. None of them have said his name yet, but he’s pretty sure they’re talking about him.

“Be that as it may,” Uncle Cygnus is saying, “it may not be possible for you to have another child at this point, my darling sister. I do not have any sons to carry on the Black name, Lucretia married into the Prewett family, and the Killing Curse will stop working before Alphard ever manages to seduce a woman. He must inherit the name.”

There’s tense silence for a moment before Mother spits, “That Fenrir Greyback! No matter that the Dark Lord uses him, he doesn’t care about our ideals. If he ever shows his hide to me, I’ll skin him.” It’s a promise, not a threat. Sirius knows that tone.

“Darling, take care not to say that too loud,” Father says quietly, and Sirius can picture Mother waving him off in the way she always does.

“Bah! The Dark Lord doesn’t care about the wolf. He’d kill Greyback just as quickly.”

“Regardless, I see few options other than to begin Sirius’ training.” This is the first time Sirius has heard Grandfather Pollux speak since he’d arrived. “If he is to be presented as a viable heir, he must learn to hold himself like a Black. Walburga, you may well keep trying for a second son, but for now Sirius must learn.”

“And what of his lycanthropy?” Mother seethes. “He’ll kill us all at the next full moon.”

“Clear out your cellar and ward it. I’d tell you to let him loose in the woods with a tracking spell, but it would be untoward to draw any conspicuous attention,” Aunt Druella offers, sounding more bored than anything. “I’d be happy to take any pricey artifacts you keep down there off your hands.”

“Keep your mitts out of our possessions, hag,” Mother says sharply.

“That’s _enough_.” Grandfather Pollux’s voice is sharp, and cuts through the room so completely that silence falls over the house, but for the distant sounds of Cissy and Bella and Andy playing in the kitchen. “Cygnus, you’ll help Orion clear out the cellar. I’ll have Cassiopeia craft wards before the next moon. Walburga, you had best gather yourself, because you and Orion will need to begin Sirius’ lessons at once.” Sirius gulps. 

_At once? Does that mean now?_ he wonders nervously.

“Pollux, I can well enough ward the cellar,” Father snaps. Sirius jolts in surprise. Father almost never snaps.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Grandfather Pollux sneers. “You’ve certainly done well enough with this place. But Cassiopeia is better than you at wardcrafting, so she’ll do it. Or would you rather your son break through a wall in the dead of night and kill you?”

No one seems to know what to say to that.

After Pollux’s declaration, the gathering disperses. Sirius watches from above as his family members trickle out of the parlor. His grandmothers are, unsurprisingly, the first to leave the room and head down to the kitchen, having said nothing during the meeting. Behind them comes Aunt Druella, who follows them down, calling Andy and Bella’s names. When Mother emerges through the threshold, Sirius is quick to stand, meaning to run to his bedroom before she sees him. As if she had known he was there all along, though, Mother looks up and makes eye contact before he manages to take a step.

Mother’s eyes have never been very nice when she looked at Sirius, at least not in the way Uncle Alphard is nice, or even the iffy kind of tolerant that his grandmothers are. Since _it_ happened, though, Mother has looked at Sirius like she hates him.

When she catches his eye from the landing below, Sirius feels frozen, though he desperately wants to run away to where she can’t see him. Still glaring, she crooks a finger, beckoning him down, and it’s all he can do to obey.

He hurries down to the second floor landing. Mother stands squarely in the middle, so that Father and Uncle Cygnus must squeeze by her as they leave the parlor and head downstairs. Sirius himself presses the backs of his ankles against the stair behind him, eager to be as far from Mother as he can before she berates him.

“Yes, Mother?” Sirius says, his voice small.

Mother’s face twists in an ugly way when he says that. Sirius’ stomach drops, and though he doesn’t know what, he feels like he’s done something he very much shouldn’t have.

“I’m Mistress Black to you, child,” Mother says sharply, her eyes narrowing. “You are allowed to call me ‘Mother’ only when we are in public. Otherwise you use my title. You understand me?”

“Why?” Sirius asks impulsively, confusion making his head spin. As soon as he says it he knows he shouldn’t have.

Moth—Mistress Black shoots an arm out to grip his shoulder, _hard_. “A werewolf is no son of mine, child,” she says through gritted teeth. Sirius winces, wishing desperately he could wiggle away from the force of her grip. He nods hastily, though his mind is turning that over and over— _a werewolf is no son of mine_. Is… is that what he is now? Is that what _it_ was?

“Yes, Mo—Mistress Black.” He trips over his own tongue trying to get it out, curling in on himself ever so slightly.

Mistress Black lets his shoulder go, slowly. “Good.” She looks him over, her lip curled, before speaking again. “You’ll start to be instructed on the proper way to behave beginning this week. If you don’t do what you’re told, there’ll be consequences.” She does not ask if he understands, but Sirius gets the hint.

“Yes, Mistress Black,” he says, much quieter than before.

She glares at him for a moment before evidently deciding his compliance to be suitable. “Good. Go to your room, child, and don’t come out again until Kreacher fetches you for dinner.” Sirius doesn’t need telling twice. As soon as she waves him off, he bounds back up the stairs, beelining for his bedroom at the end of the hall.

When he opens the door, he finds Cissy there, poking at the chess set on his dresser, provoking the figures into taking swipes at her fingers. He’d thought she was down in the kitchen.

“Sirius,” she says when they meet eyes. Sirius is a little scared of Cissy. She’s four years older than him, and a fair bit taller. “Is Aunt Walburga done with you?” He nods tentatively.

Cissy steps over to him, looking him up and down. “You don’t look like a werewolf,” she says, and her voice is so carefully neutral that Sirius can’t really tell what she means by it. Her gaze trails down to his arm, which is bandaged thickly near his shoulder, where he’d been… bit. “I want to see it.”

“What?”

“I want to see it,” Cissy says again, stepping forward. Sirius steps back. She reaches out to take hold of his shoulder, the uninjured one, and he winces as she finds the spots Mistress Black had dug her fingers in. Cissy doesn’t pay any mind to his flinch, instead reaching out to pull at the bandages on his injured shoulder.

She doesn’t unwrap them, just sticks her fingers under the edges and pulls them up until she can see under. Sirius watches her face carefully as she looks, but beyond a slight widening of her eyes before she schools her face back to neutral, she doesn’t give anything away.

When Cissy steps back, having replaced the bandages, she looks him over again. “Hm,” she hums, and doesn’t say anything else.

“Cissy?” Sirius says after a moment, when the silence lingers too long. Her eyes meet his.

“They’re all going to hate you, Siri. Bella will too, but me and Andy won’t,” she tells him, matter-of-fact. His brain stops, trying to process that, and as he’s recollecting himself, she brushes past him, leaving him alone in his room. He watches her back as she goes.

Even though she’s not anywhere near as old as Aunt Druella, Cissy holds herself the same, and Sirius feels all of a sudden very stupid. Like something important happened, and he didn’t understand it.

Cissy disappears down the stairs, Sirius still standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

Sirius learns the true meaning of the full moon two weeks after his family had gathered to decide what to do with him.

Uncle Cygnus and Father had, as Grandather Pollux told them, cleared out the old cellar. Sirius has always found it creepy, all the junk down there making weird shadows, but without anything more than an old hat rack and some wooden crates, it’s somehow even worse. The cool stone room yawns with emptiness, and Sirius feels like it holds something he cannot see.

Great Aunt Cassiopeia had come the week before to ward the cellar, and Sirius watched from a safe distance in fascination. Her fluid movements and smooth incantations seemed like the pinnacle of magical skill to him. He’d wished distantly to have that kind of grace with magic—all his accidental magic so far has been more destructive than anything else. The awe faded a little when Great Aunt Cassi passed him on her way out and gave him such an impressive sneer that he’d flinched.

“In,” Mistress Black orders at about seven o’clock, just as the sun is beginning to go down.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” Sirius protests. Mistress Black narrows her eyes.

“I said _in_ , child,” she says coldly. Sirius goes in.

He had been feeling weak and shivery all day, as if he were sick, but his nose hasn’t run and his throat doesn’t hurt. As he enters the cellar, his feet bare, the cold of the stone seeps into him and his body wracks itself with violent trembling. Passing through the wards isn’t a pleasant feeling, either. Once within them, it feels as though all life has left the cellar, even just the low hum of the earth itself. He feels trapped. Vulnerable.

Sirius turns back to look out the cellar door, where his mother stands. Mistress Black looks down at him from the short few steps upward, and the contempt in her gaze is tangible.

“Mother—” Sirius calls, wanting something, anything—

She slams the door shut, and Sirius feels the wards solidify as the door’s locks click into place on the other side.

He is alone.

No one had bothered to tell Sirius what a werewolf really is, but he’d had a pretty good guess before he managed to track down a relevant page in one of their library’s dark texts. He couldn’t read all of the words, but he had the basic concept down: werewolves get sick in the days before and after the full moon, and on the full moon they become a rabid beast that tries to hurt people.

Knowing that doesn’t prepare him, though, for how much it _hurts_.

And then he is gone.

Waking the morning after is almost peculiar enough to distract Sirius from the stinging, lancing pain of his self-inflicted injuries. He had lost control of himself during the night, as he threw himself against the walls and the door and tried to claw his way through the wards before giving up and shredding his own flesh. Upon waking, though, all of what he did are clear memories in his mind, as if he had been the one doing it.

The thought flees when he tries to move and gasps for the pain. Rather than try again, he lets himself lie there against the stone, taking stock of everywhere that hurts.

His right arm is destroyed. He’d tried to put weight on it and it buckled immediately. Cracking his eyes open, against his better judgement, reveals that his forearm has been reduced to ribbons of flesh, and he shuts his eyes tight again. His left leg hurts too, though not as much, and his side throbs. He’s cold all over—the transformation, or perhaps the wolf, had ripped through his clothes.

He lays there for what feels like hours before he hears the locks click and feels the wards relax some, and chances to open his eyes again, trying to see behind him. His gaze doesn’t get that far, however, fixated in fascination on his arm. It’s still badly hurt, but in the time he’d spent resting, it’s seemed to somehow pull itself back together so that it resembles an arm again.

Rough hands pull him onto his back, then pick him up, not bothering to handle him carefully as he is carried out of the cellar. Father.

Sirius closes his eyes against the brightness of the first floor; the cellar had been near pitch-black but for the dim magical light that had hung near the ceiling. Daylight streams inside upstairs, and he blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the sight.

Father dumps him on the kitchen table, still naked but for a few scraps of cloth hanging off him, and he automatically wraps his arms around himself despite the pain, embarrassed. “Father?” Sirius asks, nervous, as the man begins to walk away.

“I’m getting you clothes,” Father says stiffly, not looking at him. Mother is—Mistress Black is nowhere in sight.

Sirius takes the moment to look at his side and his leg, now that he’s sitting up. There’s a gory bite mark on his hip, wider than Sirius’ own head, he imagines, though it’s probably not quite that big. He has a gash on his calf that looks like a claw mark. Other than that, some bruises and other little scratches. And his arm.

Father comes back, carrying one of Sirius’ big nightshirts and a pair of boxers. He helps Sirius into them, but Sirius can’t help but notice that Father doesn’t touch him more than absolutely necessary.

Sirius feels kind of like he wants to throw up, and he knows it isn’t because of the moon.

“I’m hungry,” he says instead of mentioning it.

“Ask Kreacher to bring you food. Go to your room now.”

“Yes, Father,” Sirius says, disappointment curling in his belly.

He goes.

Sirius attends his first high society gala when he is seven and a half.

He’d picked up on most of what Mistress Black beat into him before she’d begun their lessons, but didn’t know the extent of it until she began to teach him. He was made to stand straight, make eye contact, keep a neutral face, introduce himself and shake hands properly. He learned what order in which to use cutlery, the expectations of different mealtimes and levels of formality, and how to talk without really talking. Mistress Black forced into him the capability to both hold his tongue and wield it, and much as Sirius began to _loathe_ the pureblood ideals she began to feed him with, he couldn’t deny even to himself that he was good at it.

The silver tongue came easily to him, though he stumbled over more than a few words too big for his young mouth, as did all the dances Mistress Black taught him and the languages she had him learn. This kind of learning wasn’t so bad, so long as she wasn’t shouting or hitting. Sirius could bear it, as he had learned to bear the knowledge that, when _it_ happened, he’d lost a lot more than just his full moons.

It’s a Beltane celebration on paper, though Mistress Black had revealed to Sirius it was as much an opportunity to network as it was a chance to genuinely celebrate the quarter day. The entirety of the House of Black had been invited to attend, so when they arrive, Sirius tries not to look too eager as he scans the crowd for Cissy and Andy. When he’d worked up courage enough to ask, Mistress Black had confirmed that they’d been pulled from Hogwarts for the night to attend.

It’s Cissy’s first year, and since she’s Sirius’ youngest cousin, he hopes she might indulge him a little and tell him what it’s like. Andy, in third year, has always teased him, saying he’ll find out when he gets to go. _If I get to go,_ he thinks despondently. 

He spots Bella before either of them. She has the face on that Mistress Black makes when she’s sweet-talking an unassuming man into submission, and Sirius shudders to think what Bella might want from the guy she’s talking to. She’s in fifth year. Sirius has heard Father and Mistress Black talking about her marriage prospects; perhaps they aren’t the only ones taking an interest.

He finally spots Cissy. She’s wearing a pretty green dress with her hair pinned up, though it looks a little strange on her, since she’s only eleven and it’s a really mature cut, or so Mistress Black would describe it. She’s talking to a boy who’s probably a little older than her. His hair is as blonde as hers is, and his formal clothes look similarly weird on him.

Sirius makes to approach them to say hello, but Mistress Black’s hand falls on his shoulder, and he stills.

“Not so fast, child. You have to be presented,” she mutters low enough that only Sirius’ ears can pick it up. He doesn’t try to move away again, but glances at Cissy, disappointed. The crowd moves and blocks her from sight.

Once Father has finished handing off their coats to a house elf, he comes up alongside them and another of the Malfoy’s house elves announces them.

“Walburga and Orion Black, and their son Sirius, Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” the stuffy little elf says in a magically amplified voice. The attendees pause their conversations for a moment to face them, politely clapping, before a gentle murmur resumes. Sirius notes a few curious glances thrown his way, however.

Now that they’ve been announced, Sirius tries again to split off from his parents, but Mistress Black’s fingers dig in.

“You’ll be staying with us for Beltane, child. People need to meet you,” she all but growls, and, though he hates the thought, Sirius doesn’t protest.

As many phrases and pretty words as Mistress Black taught him, Sirius doesn’t quite understand what the nonsense is that all the adults talk about, and he definitely doesn’t catch all the subtext, no matter how much he’s been forced to listen for it. Mistress Black drags him around by the shoulder, having him introduce himself to anyone remotely important, and though he’s sure she’d mentioned something during their lessons about “cultivating good relationships with other Heirs,” she doesn’t let him go and meet any of them, much less talk with his cousins.

“Lord Malfoy,” Sirius greets automatically as Mistress Black finally steers him over to the hosts. “Lady Malfoy.” Abraxas and Aranea Malfoy both have the same bright blonde hair as the boy Cissy was talking to earlier; he must be Heir Malfoy.

“Heir Black,” Lord Malfoy greets him in turn with a quirk of his brow. He has this funny look on his face that makes Sirius think the man is making fun of him. “Wonderful to meet you at last. Where has Lady Black been hiding you all this time?” The way he says it, Sirius thinks he isn’t actually looking for a response.

“The child’s been a right menace trying to teach our ways, but I’ve whipped him into shape,” Mistress Black cuts in, and Lord Malfoy’s gaze flicks to her like he’d expected nothing less. “Lovely gathering, Lord Malfoy.”

“My wife has spared no expense in the décor,” Lord Malfoy says proudly, and Lady Malfoy smirks. “She has quite the eye for these things, as I’m sure you can tell.”

“Quite,” Mistress Black agrees. “My husband is much the same.” Next to her, though he’s opposite Sirius, he can tell Father straightens up a bit.

They chat a while about, as far as Sirius can tell, absolutely nothing, and he’s just growing bored out of his mind when the blonde boy from earlier approaches them. Cissy isn’t with him, but a quick glance outward shows her hovering, but trying not to look like she’s hovering, an appropriate distance away.

“Lady Black, Lord Black,” the boy greets politely, waiting for their returning greetings before he turns to Lord Malfoy. “Father, may I speak with you?”

“Now, Lucius, I’m rather in the middle of something,” Lord Malfoy says lightly, though Sirius can tell he’s irritated. Evidently, so can the boy—Heir Malfoy—considering how he stiffens. Sirius accidentally makes eye contact with Lord Malfoy, who smirks slightly. “How about you show Heir Black around? You two are likely to become common company in the coming years,” he proposes airily, shooting a pointed glance toward where Cissy waits. Lucius keeps his face carefully neutral. “If, of course, that’s alright with you, Lady Black.”

Mistress Black’s lip purses some, but she waves Sirius off. “Certainly.” Sirius isn’t one to ask twice if he’s been dismissed, but he hesitates some, looking at Heir Malfoy. It doesn’t take more than another rough push on his shoulder to get him moving, though.

“Of course, Father,” Heir Malfoy says stiffly, and waits for Sirius to come level with him before walking off, back toward Cissy. Sirius can only follow.

“Well?” Cissy asks as he approaches, giving Sirius a curious—but not hostile—look.

“I’ll have to speak with him later. He didn’t let me say it,” Heir Malfoy replies, his tone decidedly looser. He seems about to say something else before he notices Sirius again. “He foisted this kid off on me, told me to show him around.” Cissy’s lip quirks up.

“Oh, Sirius isn’t so bad. Come on, this is a good excuse to explore,” she says. It’s the most mischievous Sirius has ever heard her sound. For a split second, though they’re so different, she reminds him perfectly of Andy.

Heir Malfoy leads them through the crowd, weaving through the adults in a way both graceful and surreptitious. Sirius tries to mimic him, but he’s wearing clothes so formal they’re stifling, and as much as he’s practiced, he doubts he’ll ever move as fluidly as people like Great Aunt Cassiopeia. He stumbles along behind Heir Malfoy and Cissy, who glide forward like they were made for it.

They come out in a hall that’s less crowded, and Sirius’ footsteps echo on the marble floor as he enters, looking up at the domed ceiling. A beautiful stained glass piece is set into the dome, ringing its peak, and sending multicolored light scattering across the floor. Cissy doesn’t emote more than she usually does, but Sirius can see in her eyes that she thinks it’s pretty.

The stained glass depicts something, though Sirius can’t quite make out what it’s supposed to represent, since unlike many pieces he’s seen, this one is not animated. There are figures and landscapes, and it makes a clear progression as it rings around the room, but Sirius can’t tell where it starts or what it means. His brow furrowed, he catches Heir Malfoy looking at him in condescending amusement before he can turn away.

“It shows the witch burnings. Surely you’ve been told about them?”

He had. “Yeah,” Sirius says, miffed. Mistress Black had gone on and on about them, how the muggles despised their kind and had acted terribly toward them.

Heir Malfoy gestures toward the other side of the ring. “It also shows our retaliation.”

He looks at the glass. The little brown and pale figures that he can see carry wands, and are pointing them. As the images progress, glass light bursts from the tips and travels toward another group of figures, none of which carry wands. Their faces are contorted in fear as the light nears them. In the final pane before the story begins again, the people—the muggles—are depicted on the ground, their limbs at odd angles, their faces twisted as if in pain.

Sirius doesn’t know why, but it makes him feel sick, like he would if the moon were coming. When he looks away again, Heir Malfoy and Cissy are both studying his face. Malfoy smirks a little, as if vindicated. Cissy doesn’t convey anything at all.

“I just remembered something,” Sirius says stiffly, the desire to leave suddenly bubbling over. “I’m going to go find Mi—Mother,” he corrects quickly, and without waiting for a response, turns on his heel and dives back into the crowded other room.

He doesn’t seek out Mistress Black until the end of the evening, unsettled and without real understanding of why. When he finds her eventually, she shoots him a quick, withering look that tells him she knows he’d given Heir Malfoy the slip, and he resigns himself to trouble when they get home.

The churning in his gut, that quiet, creeping notion that something is _wrong_ , doesn’t leave, even when he settles into bed that night with bruises dark enough his hair might blend in with them.

In July, when Sirius is ten years old, the Headmaster of Hogwarts visits the Black family home. Sirius had been studying in the parlor when he arrived, and is there when Father escorts the man in. The Headmaster has the longest beard Sirius has ever seen on a man, and is wearing a set of rather tasteless blue and yellow robes. Sirius carefully shuts his mouth at the sight.

“Headmaster Dumbledore, this is my son, Sirius,” Father introduces him, and when Headmaster Dumbledore reaches a hand out, Sirius shakes it tentatively.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sirius,” he says, in a much kinder voice than Sirius hears most people speak with.

“Hello, Headmaster,” he replies softly, suddenly feeling shy. The Headmaster’s eyes twinkle as he smiles.

“Please, call me Professor Dumbledore,” the Headmaster says.

“Okay, Professor.”

Just then, Mistress Black decides to make her appearance, and strides briskly into the room. The Headmaster turns to her, a genial smile in his face, and offers his hand. Mistress Black takes it, shaking while she looks him up and down.

“You certainly look the part of Dippet’s successor,” Mistress Black says, forgoing all formality, and Sirius tenses. The Headmaster only laughs, however, a low, dry chuckle.

“I trust the beard does much for the position,” he replies.

“You’ll be a better Headmaster than a Transfiguration Professor, I think,” Mistress Black says, and her lips curl into an approving half-smile, which the Headmaster returns more brightly. Sirius’ head feels somewhat like it’s spinning, seeing them interact so informally.

“So, Walburga, dear, what cause do you have for inviting me to the esteemed House of Black?” The Headmaster cuts to the chase, and Sirius leans forward, eager to know as well. Mistress Black’s pleasant expression vanishes.

“I’d like to secure a spot in Hogwarts for my son,” she says seriously. The Headmaster quirks an eyebrow, glancing at Sirius, who sits very straight.

“His name has been down since birth, as with all of the nearby magical children. Sirius is certainly welcome at Hogwarts,” Headmaster Dumbledore says carefully. “Might there be circumstances I do not know about?”

Mistress Black doesn’t answer immediately, instead looking at Sirius with contempt. He fights the urge to shrink away from her gaze. Rather than speak, she strides toward him, and yanks up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the scar from _it_.

The Headmaster recognizes it immediately, his brows climbing up as he looks upon it. He moves over to Sirius as well, taking Sirius’ arm in his hands, though he flinches back. The Headmaster runs his fingers over the scar, humming.

“You see why I needed to speak with you,” Mistress Black says. It is not a question.

“Quite,” Headmaster Dumbledore agrees. All humor is gone from his tone. “Sirius’ condition is no reason for us to forsake his education. It is simply that special precautions must be put in place,” he says diplomatically, and though his words are ominous, Sirius can’t help but breathe out in relief.

 _I’ll get to go to Hogwarts!_ he thinks, with a glee he fights hard not to let show on his face.

Mistress Black nods, satisfied. “I’ll be in touch with you next summer about preparations, then,” she prompts, and the Headmaster nods his confirmation. Her serious expression relaxes. “Then please, join me in our dining room downstairs for tea. It would not do to send you on your way without affording you some hospitality.” Headmaster Dumbledore agrees, and they leave the room, not giving Sirius or Father a backward glance.

“You understand what this means, don’t you?” Father says suddenly, and Sirius jolts.

“What?”

“He knows what you are, and will surely inform the rest of the Hogwarts staff. If you step one toe out of line, they’ll throw you out, and expose you.” Father glowers at him, and though his glares are nowhere near as powerful as Mistress Black’s can be, Sirius shrinks away all the same. “See to it that you don’t drag the Black name through the mud.”

“Yes Father,” Sirius says, and watches his Father’s back as he leaves the parlor.

Sirius has been to galas held for every holiday on the Wheel, has shaken hands with all the Lords and Ladies of high society, has learned the word _mudblood_ and figured out for himself why purebloods use it, has quietly promised himself he’ll turn the House of Black on its head when he inherits it, has ripped himself to shreds and watched his body remake itself countless times, when Mistress Black grows pregnant again.

He is eleven years old. It is a few weeks until Ostara when Mistress Black gets suspicious about how round her stomach is growing, and has a mediwizard come in to do diagnostic spells. She’d given up having someone come in regularly to do them, met every time with an answer she didn’t want to hear. Sirius would suspect she’d given up completely if she didn’t still berate him with phrases like, “When I don’t need you anymore…”

The spells come back green, and Sirius feels that old sick feeling redouble in his gut, though this time it’s accompanied with a mounting horror. If the child she bears comes out male, Mistress Black might really do away with him, as she’d spat countless times she wished she could.

Father and Mistress Black look at each other with an impure form of happiness, and Sirius leaves the room before they can remember he’s there. He holds on to the comfort that, if he’s right, the birth will be just shy of September, and he’ll be off to Hogwarts before Mistress Black can get any ideas.

The possibility of a new child, one who might inherit the House of Black, sets Sirius reeling. Since he was six years old, he has seen two paths for himself: death or Heir Black. He chose, every time, to be the Heir—to buy in to pureblood ideals and rub shoulders with those of importance, all in the vague hope that one day he’d inherit it all, be able to change it from its very foundations.

Now, a third path stretches on before him, leading toward a vague and terrifying future. Maybe death, eventually, if Mistress Black decides to set the Ministry on him as a werewolf, but first disownment. A younger brother would grow up to be better, politer, to buy in totally to the pureblood agenda, and Mistress Black would look at him and then look at Sirius and make up some fake scandal as an excuse to blast him off the family tree, leaving the youngest Black to take his place as Heir. And Sirius would be powerless to stop it.

Two months later, the mediwizard returns to check the gender of the child. Sirius lingers in the stairwell, waiting, his breath held.

He doesn’t see the color the spell turns, but Mistress Black’s excited cries are enough for Sirius to know. A little brother is on the way, Sirius’ path is solidified, and his mind has been made up.

All his life, he has resigned himself to play the game, his sights trained on the future, when he’d be in charge and could change things. It’s been Sirius’ only option to play, but this child… past being his possible doom, this brother might also be his _out_.

If the Black legacy has another hand to guide it, what’s stopping him from dropping the act? Why not throw in the towel?

Pushing down the nausea, pushing away the terror at the very notion, Sirius pulls his mouth into a vicious grin. What’s stopping him, indeed?

Regulus Arcturus Black is born on August 23rd, 1971, exactly ten days before Sirius is due to head to Hogwarts. Sirius has been packed and ready for a week yet, all the while playing the part of perfect, obedient Heir Black.

He isn’t invited into Mistress Black’s bedroom so much as his Father drags him in. It smells awful, and the mediwitch who had come to help the process steps out just as Sirius is brought in. There are stains on the bedsheets which Sirius tries hard not to look at, and Mistress Black’s nightdress is pulled up, which Sirius decidedly does not look at either.

She’s cradling the baby Regulus in her arms, looking down at him with something resembling a smile. A spike of jealousy goes through Sirius, so unexpected that he almost takes a step back, the only thing stopping him being Father’s hand on his shoulder.

Mistress Black looks up at them, and the smile slides from her face in place of an exhausted neutrality. “Come here, child,” she says, and a small push from Father has Sirius approaching the bedside. Mistress Black presents Regulus to him. “This is your brother, Regulus.” Sirius would almost be able to imagine himself part of a loving family, being introduced for the first time to his little brother, were it not for her next words. “The new Heir Black.”

Sirius does not react. It would be weakness to show any dismay, so he doesn’t, instead stepping back, face blank. Mistress Black stares at him for a moment, eyes smug. Then she waves the fingers of the hand supporting Regulus’ head in dismissal. Sirius doesn’t need telling twice to go.

Mistress Black does not accompany him to Platform 9 ¾. Father guides him from the apparition point silently, Kreacher dragging his trunk along behind them, and when they reach about the middle of the platform, Father stops him.

“You will listen to the Professors, and do what is asked of you regarding your… condition. You will not cause trouble. Make friends among your fellow Slytherins; we expect you to come to the holidays having made connections. We’ll see you for Mabon on the 23rd,” Father instructs him. Sirius nods mutely after every statement. “Understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Get on the train,” Father says. “Kreacher, give him his trunk.” The elf does as asked before disappearing with a _crack_.

“Goodbye, Father,” Sirius says. Father nods jerkily before turning on his heel and heading toward the apparition point. He doesn’t look back.

Neither does Sirius, when he turns and heads for the train. The first full moon of the school year is on Sunday—not quite near enough for him to be feeling sickly yet, but he doesn’t feel totally well. He manages to lug his trunk onto the train, though, and heads down the aisle, looking for a suitable compartment. It’s still fairly early, so most compartments are empty, but Sirius forgoes most of the ones at the front in favor of a compartment further back.

After stowing his trunk away on the rack above the seats, then sitting down and gazing out the window at the somewhat grimy station wall, a peculiar feeling overcomes Sirius. For the first time in eleven years, he isn’t going to be under his parents’ constant surveillance. There are expectations of him still, and his condition affords him only so much wiggle room, of course—but despite all that, Sirius somehow feels _light_. Free, in a way he’s never had the opportunity to be.

About an hour later, while Sirius is kicking his heels, watching other students pass by his compartment, someone slides the door open and drags his trunk in without so much as a knock.

It’s a boy, another first-year probably, with messy black hair and glasses. He’s struggling to push the trunk up next to Sirius’, and before he realizes what he’s doing, Sirius hops up to help him. With that done, the boy looks at him, eyes bright, and grins.

“Thanks, mate! Sorry for barging in, everywhere else is either full or has people I don’t like much,” he says, voice cheery, and Sirius feels slapped in the face with his exuberance. “I’m James Potter.” Potter extends a hand.

A bunch of things go through Sirius’ head very quickly, and as he reaches to take James’ hand, he makes a decision. He has spent eleven years restraining himself, schooling his expressions and carefully picking his words. This boy—this James Potter—clearly, so very clearly, doesn’t care about things like that. And Sirius suddenly, badly wants to be like him.

“I’m Sirius Black,” he responds in kind, going for a smile of his own, and shakes Potter’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Potter.” Potter tilts his head, his grin taking on a funny quirk.

“Call me James. No need for the formality,” Potter— _James_ says easily. Sirius blinks, then nods.

“I’m Sirius, then.” He thinks a bit. “Do you have a Charlus in your line?” It’s James’ turn to blink.

“Yeah, my grandpa. How’d you guess?”

“One of my great aunts married him. Dorea Black. Potter now, I s’pose,” Sirius explains, and James cracks another grin.

“So we’re cousins then. Brilliant!” The way James smiles is so easy. So bright and open, and Sirius feels bowled over by the enormity of his desire—this kid is the kind of person he wants to be. He doesn’t want to be a stuffy Slytherin, picking and choosing his words for the rest of his life. He wants to be this bright.

“Second cousins, but yeah.” Sirius returns James’ smile.

“So, Sirius, where d’you reckon you’ll end up?” James asks, and Sirius internally winces.

“What House, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, can’t you guess? I’m a Black,” Sirius says, some bitterness creeping into his tone. James gives him a look.

“Just because all your family’s in Slytherin doesn’t mean you will be, too. You seem alright,” James says, shrugging, leaving Sirius baffled.

“How would you know? You’ve only known me for a couple minutes.”

“You helped me with my trunk. Those slimy Slytherins wouldn’t have.” James’ justification is so utterly simple that it leaves Sirius’ mouth hanging open in bewilderment. James snorts out a laugh at his expression. “Well, _I’ll_ be in Gryffindor, for sure. My dad has always thought so,” he says with an air of self-importance. “Bet you a sickle you’ll be a lion, too.”

Shaking his head, Sirius says, “You’re on.” Much as he’d like not to be in Slytherin—a fact Sirius only really realizes right then—all of the Blacks have always been snakes. “You’ll see.”

“No, _you_ will,” James shoots back, and from there the banter is easy.

Sirius has never met someone who wasn’t a snooty pureblood before. Andy has always been a little looser in her beliefs—she’s been his favorite cousin since Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy started courting—but she still grew up the same way he did. James is his first glimpse of what it must be like for everyone else, and it strikes Sirius like lightning, the sudden, all-encompassing desire to be part of that normalcy.

He surprises himself with how easily he chatters back and forth with James, considering their differences. Part of it is, he thinks, the silver tongue Mistress Black had taught to him, but a large part of it, too, is the fact that James is just _easy_. He exudes it; talking with him is no hard feat, nor is playing games with him, or sharing the candy Sirius buys from the trolley with him. It’s like they’ve been friends for years. Sirius wants to wrap himself in this feeling, wants to never let it go.

No one else had joined their compartment before the train set out, and all too soon it begins to slow, screeching to a halt in Hogsmeade station. Sirius makes to grab for his trunk when they stand, but James stops him, waving a hand.

“The house elves take our luggage up to our dorms, my dad told me,” James explains. Reluctantly, Sirius leaves his belongings there, and files out into the aisle behind James.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years, this way!” A great, booming voice gets their attention as they get off the train. Sirius looks at James, who shrugs, and they squeeze through the crowd toward the voice, which turns out to belong to an absolute _giant_ of a man.

When a sizable group of kids has amassed, and the rest of the students have gone off toward the carriages on the other side of the station, the man nods in satisfaction and speaks.

“My name is Rubeus Hagrid, and I’m the Keeper of Keys and Grounds here at Hogwarts. Follow me, now,” he says with a smile, before turning and heading down a sloping path toward a wide, glittering lake. As they approach, a small fleet of boats comes into view, all bobbing quietly in the water. James gently elbows Sirius in excitement, shooting him an elated grin that Sirius returns.

They get into a boat together. Behind them, a pudgy, nervous looking boy climbs in, as well as Evan Rosier, who Sirius gives a brief nod to. Rosier returns it.

Once all the first years are seated, the boats set off across the lake, and Hogwarts Castle comes into view.

It’s breathtaking. Sirius has heard plenty about Hogwarts throughout his childhood, but never has anyone managed to describe this view in detail enough for him to have understood. The castle, alight with lanterns and the flicker of light in the windows, stands as a haunting silhouette against the darkening sky. Owls swoop around one tower, their cries echoing out over the water, and Sirius is sure he lets an awed gasp slip out to mingle with everyone else’s—not a single student isn’t appreciating this sight.

“Brilliant,” James murmurs, and a quick glance at him shows the lights reflected on his glasses, his childishly round face beaming as he gazes up.

Too soon, the boats bump into the opposite shore, and Sirius and James are among the first ones to follow the Gamekeeper up the staircase heading into the castle. Sirius turns his head every which way, trying to catch a glimpse of everywhere at once, and James laughs and keeps him from tripping at least twice.

In a small antechamber, a stern-looking woman introduces herself as Transfiguration Professor Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House. Her demeanor demands respect, but in a different way than Mistress Black’s does—Professor McGonagall seems more a gentle steel than a serrated one. Sirius likes her.

“In a moment, you will follow me single-file into the Great Hall, where you will be called by named to come to the front. I will place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into one of four houses: Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor. Is that clear?” A sea of head nods follows her explanation. “Good. Follow me, then.”

The Great Hall is bigger, even, than Sirius had expected. The ceiling twinkles with the same starry sky they’d just ridden under, and it’s Sirius’ turn to keep James from tripping as he cranes his neck to look. Behind them, the pudgy boy that had ridden in the boat with them does the same, though he isn’t so lucky and manages to trip on a stone, stumbling into the smaller boy next to him. Sirius fights an amused grin as he hears the kid mutter an embarrassed, “Sorry.”

The sorting begins with an Avery, Muller, who goes to Slytherin. Sirius is familiar with him since the Malfoys are friendly with the Averys, and he sneers at the thought of being forced to socialize with Heir Avery. Sirius had always kind of hated him.

With the last name ‘Black,’ only a few other students precede him, and Sirius swallows nervously as Professor McGonagall calls his name. James gives him a friendly pat on the back as he begins to walk, and they briefly share a glance. James seems confident in him, somehow, and though Sirius doesn’t know how or why, the feeling of confidence begins to fill him up, too.

He sits on the stool, the Hall’s eyes on him, and lets the Professor drop the hat on his head.

 _A Black, hmm?_ The hat’s voice startles him, echoing in his mind like his own thought, though distinctly foreign. _I know very well what your family would have me do with you._

 _What my family would have you do?_ Sirius thinks back in confusion. _Then, would_ you _put me somewhere different?_

The hat seems to chuckle, and it reverberates in his head so oddly that Sirius feels he’ll have a headache after this. _You, Sirius Black, would make an interesting Slytherin, I’m sure. But that isn’t the best place for you. No, you had better be,_ the hat says, and Sirius barely has the chance to feel elated before it’s shouting to the entire hall, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The hall is quiet, but for some scattered clapping—muggleborns, probably, who don’t know the name Black—and James’ excited cheers.

Sirius _beams_.

And then Sirius thinks, _Oh, bollucks,_ because Mistress Black might kill him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked my writing, please leave a comment! I really appreciate them. And feel free to check out some of my other Harry Potter fics:
> 
> [ripe with ambition, the lot of you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22321174) ; A fic exploring the possibility of the Weasleys as a Slytherin family.
> 
> [remus john fucking lupin, in memoriam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514152) ; An homage to Remus Lupin, from an outsider's perspective.
> 
> [a study in conviction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23810383) ; A fic exploring the nuance of the Unforgivable curses, and how they might be used in the hands of someone who isn't a Dark Lord.


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